On Woody Guthrie’s Birthday

Oh Woody, I am thinking about you!
I have grown somewhat bitter.
I must admit!
I know you – sometimes I fancy
that I am just like you.
But maybe it is because I know too much
and have been burnt by the fire.
So, a few questions I might ask. For
I am romantically involved so as to
mention – Sarah Ogan Gunning!

Was she bitter because Aunt Molly got
to hang around all them rich folks?
Was it because Pete played for the
Rockefellers, while singing –
I don’t want, your millions mister?

Hypocrisy is a bitch!
If you point it out –
they will bury you!
How much more crap should I take
before I “die with my hammer in
my hand?”

I heard Sarah ripped your ass once –
because you did one of her songs.
She picked your little ass up and
almost ringed your neck.
Is that true?

Woody, brother, i see what you saw,
and I think I know why you wrote all
night, alone, falling asleep on your
typewriter, full ashtray …

It takes a worried man,
to sing a worried song.

I certainly am worried.

One last question:

Did you ever hear Joe Hill talking
to you? I have.He said,
Don’t mourn, Organize.
So, i organized my life.
Trying not to get bitter and
am working now as a deck
hand on a Ohio River
Steamboat built two
years after you was borned.

Brother,
I wish we could hang out!
See, I worked on the railroad.
Found a lonesome darkness
engulfing me.
I gave it all up.
Once I built a railroad ..
you know the rest.

Brother,
For your birthday –
I offer you a song.
I wrote it for Jimmie
Rodgers. I have alot
in common with him too.

When the song
gets to the part where
I sing “I think y’all knowd.”
That part is for you!

Happy Birthday.

Love,
JP “Catfish John” Wright

P.S

You wanna hear some shit?
I heard Sarah Ogan died at a
singing circle. Time came
for her to sing. She took a
deep breath, and died.

I wonder if the dress she
wore was blue?

She sure knew how to
drive that steel!


Dear America,

America’s myths are
being exposed and run
through the ringer
of public discourse.
Dear America,
Keep trying to explain
your way out of this.
The more you talk,
the more you expose
your weakness.
You know you lied!
You snuck out
of the house.
Got drunk.
Wrecked the car.
Date raped the country
and someone caught
you on video.
You know slavery was
an evil and not to mention
a labor policy called
human trafficking.
A slave is:
a slave
is a slave.
Like the workers
who make your shirt!
Pick the apples
for your pie.
Like the
wage slave
at a for – profit or
501 c whatever –
who is expected
to trade
love for labor,
because they are
part of
“the team.”
Like the military protecting
“our”
oil interests in the region.
So,
keep talking.
Your children are
getting the picture.
You can’t blame this
on commies and reds.
You cant blame this
on the media.
The issue is –
you lied about
what you did.
So, fess up.
America …
the more you try
to lie and make
excuses –
the more you
dig your own grave.
The founding fathers
were just men.
Like all other.
They were
just men, protecting
their own ass.
They wanted
power, land
and money.
They made selfies
called dollars.
They enslaved
women, children.
Nothing was
sacred unless
they owned it.
They prayed
to God that trust
wouldn’t find them
delusional.
Now,
they
are being
crucified
by their own
children.
Melted away
in a pot of
their own
creation.
John Paul

IMG_3594


My Late Mother, Visits This Morning …

An image, i could have swore

was your face, while mine

dripping wet, glasses on the

sink, blurry vision – hands

cupped, water splashing like

morning prayers – I saw your

look in the mirror. The one

when you were fighting all

the King’s horses and all

the King’s men, like when

somebody was messin’ with

one of yours.

 

A feeling. Like old women

wailing at icons and kissing

pictures of saints – and I

get this feeling, that rushes

through my soul – something

like a haunting, ominous breath

or a reminder … “These are not

children, playing children’s games!

A warm kiss on my ear from

somewhere there, and my

morning ritual continues …

 

When you were dying, i asked

to whom were your praying …

like two students might ask, who

are you reading these days, and

you said … “Mother Mary.”

I should have known you would

say that. You said, “She was so

powerful, and knew what they

were doing to her son. She even

saw her own son, die.”

 

And like that, this little boy wakes

with a download! A muse whispering

from some distant star. Vibrations

tickling thought and memory. A

voice of a writer who never was

allowed to speak – slips in like

a dervish merchant, like a little

kid tapping one shoulder and

then playfully running

the other way. —

 

… and after writing that down …

i walk out my backdoor –

in ritual, trees waving – frigid

breeze of morning and yes

i hear you! That lonesome

whistle! We used to be.

And, I loved you.

Your cold steel friends, unforgiving

extremes … heat like radiation –

cold like death. Everywhere

I look this morning, i feel

as if I am walking a graveyard.

Memories like grass and weeds

not cut for years around markers

long forgotten …

Escape is not relative or

being courted –

death like vision and mission

moves about like fireflies

in every tearless glance.

And i feel a peace

in knowing love is

as a lover sings lullabies

to a dead child as leaves

fall to renewal – as

light fades like a life

connection – as an old

person only remembers

the good old days.

scan0007


I Stand For Freedom!

I stand for freedom

and the right to organize!

 

I stand for love

and strong communities.

 

I stand for immigrants and

the poor.

 

I stand for human rights

and all marginalized voices.

 

I stand up for rivers

and on top of mountains

that you think you own –

i’ll stand with anyone

when your banks are

stealing their homes.

 

I stand for children and

dreams & folk traditions

that are passed down &

work to preserve our

stories, until all your

myths are torn down.

 

I will stand if that flag

is draped over a coffin

 

only devils disrespect

the dead

 

So much blood

has been spilled

for profit – I won’t

stand for Red.

I won’t stand for White

when it time to have

an American dream.

I will stand for Blue

when it’s in a song

about suffering and

when walking in someone

else’s shoes.

 

I will stand for fifty billion

stars and that stripe

called the milky way

as I look toward the heavens

& kneel down to to pray.

 

I won’t stand when you

trade blood for oil – &

trap people in cages to

work for you.

 

I will stand with any veteran

of any of your stupid wars

like i’ll stand with all workers

& the disabled when they

are knocking on

freedom’s door.

 

I will stand with the

gay community and all

of their alphabet soup –

my momma didn’t raise

no dummy – to trade

his soul for a

two piece suit.

 

I stand in my grandfather’s shoes

with his red, white and green

cedar tree flag, his brown skin &

Arab blood, he came here

looking up to you!

 

I stand with my German heritage

although my neighborhood has

been sold to the highest bidder!

Who find favor with our mayor

& their LLC’s and doctrines

of prosperity.

 

I’ll stand behind

any Native peoples!

 

– some of them fought

for you –

 

although you pitted them

against each other like you

so often do!

 

I’ll stand anywhere I please

and sit down like Rosa Parks

if need be! This land was

never your land! Do you

remember Wounded Knee?

 

So, America,

get off your high horse

and practice what you

preach – you once

put that flag on the moon

with your ego and

gritted teeth.

IMG_3594

Home

voices and sounds
that i know surround
colors and images

circles and directions
inerrant to my system
when to stop and go

home

from the heart
by way of hands
i have labored

drum beat dance
we celebrate
with wine not
made from grapes
in a time and place

personality

DCRR5510

I spoke to a rock

Enjoy this poem, and if you can, please consider supporting my work. My new poetry book is here, and my music can be purchased from Bandcamp or CDbaby

Thanks y’all! Have a Goodin’

jP


 

I spoke to a rock

sitting in the mountain

stream.

 

Introduced myself.

 

I asked if it had ever

heard the metaphor

 

about its role

in the family.

 

It said no.

 

The rock told about rushing

waters, gully washers

and slowly being pushed

downstream.

 

The rock told of

how it used to

be way up the hill

and how one day –

it hopes to see the river.

 

It asked why I was

visiting, and I told about

my son, who was afraid

to move, about my wife

scared and determined.

 

I told about the railroad

and how my family, mind

and body suffered.

 

The rock told of how

it misses the greater

mountain that

it was a

part of –

 

and how once it fell

down a steep slope

and broke off from

a boulder &

how its edges used

to be pointed and sharp.

 

I told the rock –

I play music and write

about where I used

to work.

 

It asked

about that locomotive

whistle it hears

in the night –

echoing in the hills.

 

I told the rock

that haunting –

eerie, lonesome

sound is an old

tired, worn out

metaphor greatly

used by poets,

writers

and musicians.

 

We sat

quietly

together.

 

I listened to the

waters gently

trickling over

the rocks.

 

When I got up

to leave, the rock

said,

 

come back

someday –

I’ll still be here.

Maybe just a little

further downhill

and a slight bit

smoother.